


take a breath my heart and hold your tongue

by psycheDahlia



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Closeted Character, High School, M/M, Marijuana, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning, Smoking, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-19 18:58:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14879375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psycheDahlia/pseuds/psycheDahlia
Summary: when you're low on weed, sometimes there's only one option. 15-year-old dennis, mac, and charlie deal with it.well. kinda. theykindadeal with it.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from "pretty little head" by eliza rickman which marks this as the second time i've used a song about oral sex to title a fic that contains no oral sex

Charlie Kelly is fifteen. He’s sitting on a freezer in Dennis’s garage, staring out the open garage door at the suburb streets. It’s summer, and the air smells like it, smells of cut grass and sprinkler water and smoke from a grill and just like, sunlight. The sun’s only just starting to really make a full effort at going down, the afternoon blue getting slowly tainted with the pinks and purples of evening but it’s still plenty bright out. Dennis’s neighbor’s twin girls are playing in an octopus-shaped sprinkler that spins and shoots water from its tentacles, running and squealing in glittering mermaid themed swimsuits. One’s wearing goggles, the kind that pinch your nose shut for you. The other’s got a snorkel clamped between her teeth, muffling her excited screams.

Charlie’s got about one-third of a Bomb Pop in his hand, and yeah it’s off-brand but you wouldn’t know it from the taste, and he’s just gotten to the blue part, which is his favorite part of the Bomb Pop which is his favorite kind of patriotic popsicle including the off-brand ones if they’re any good and this one is. Dennis’s weird sister has a radio going in her room, and her room is right above the garage. She’s got her window open for the breeze, so the music is almost as clear as it would’ve been if the radio were in the garage proper with just the slightest bit of muffling from distance.

Something feels important about this moment, Charlie thinks. Feels like something his older self will want to look back on someday. It’s a strangely poignant thought, for him. He slurps and laps at the melted blue dripping stickily down his fingers, feeling the ice numbing and aching his lips in equal turn, and thinks, _I’m gonna remember this._

Mac’s sat on the concrete floor in a faded Eagles jersey, his skinny thigh just out of kicking distance - not that Charlie _wants_ to kick him, at least not right now, that’s just Charlie’s best attempt at judging distance. He’s got a thick, ancient piece of green chalk clutched in his fist, a relic from Dennis’s childhood or maybe his sister’s. The line dividing the outside from the inside bisects Mac’s wrist, his hand illuminated by glowing sunlight while the rest of him stays dim, as he scrawls something in crude, sloppy bubble letters onto Dennis’s driveway. It’s kinda sideways-backwards from where Charlie’s sitting, and he’s not sure it’s a word he could’ve read anyway, but he can count to four, and if it’s a four-letter word he’s pretty sure he knows exactly what Mac’s writing.

“I don’t know why you’re writing it upside down,” Dennis says, sitting on the steps into his house and thumbing through a girly magazine - not a girly mag, just a magazine that’s real fuckin’ girly - that had shown up for Dennis’s sister while they’d been sitting there. Even though it’s not a girly mag, even though he _has_ girly mags, Dennis has been ripping out all the pictures of girls in bathing suits. ‘Bikini or less’ had been the criteria, but Dennis is having a real bitch of a time finding nudity in _Tiger Beat._ The sound of glossy paper torn from glue and staple binding echoes through the garage as Dennis sloppily tears out a photo of a preteen blonde girl in a tropical print tankini, her lower half wrapped in a knee-length opaque orange sarong. Dennis licks his lips, raking his eyes over her sunbaked flesh.

“I’m not!” Mac insists. “I’m writing it the right way around!”

“Yeah, to you,” Dennis gestures, “Which means it’s the wrong way ‘round to anyone driving down the street. The only person who’s gonna be able to read that is, like, my dad, when he leaves for work tomorrow?”

“Good,” Mac says, “It’s for your dad.”

“What?” Dennis raises his eyebrows. “Why’s it for my _dad?”_

Mac gestures emphatically to a blank space of garage floor. “He washed away my pot leaf! I spent all day working on it!”

Dennis finishes leafing through the magazine and, without looking, chucks it over his shoulder into a garbage can full of yard waste. He rolls his eyes. “Mac, you never drew a pot leaf. You drew a green maple leaf, because you apparently haven’t the slightest clue what a pot leaf looks like.”

“I never see the leaves,” Mac protests, “I see the buds, and I see it as a powder. I never see the leaves.”

“If you’re grinding it into a ‘powder’, you’re grinding it too thin,” Dennis corrects, “and more to the point, I told you not to draw inside my fucking garage anymore and you waited til I went to use the bathroom and did it anyway. If you’d drawn it in the driveway like you were supposed to, it would’ve been washed away by now anyway.” He leafs through the rest of the pile of his family’s mail, intermittently tossing items into the trash. “I have zero sympathy for you.”

“That’s why I drew it in the garage!” Mac cries, not looking up from the last letter. Charlie’s almost sure it’s a V now, a V with a line right next to it, and he can’t think of any four-letter words that end with a V. Wolf? He’s pretty sure ‘wolf’ ends with the “v” sound. Is Mac calling Dennis’s dad a wolf? “So that it wouldn’t get washed away! But then your asshole dad washes it anyway!”

Dennis makes a frustrated sound in his throat, tossing the remaining mail into a haphazard pile by his door and picking up his pile of torn-out magazine pages, “On the list of things that make my dad an asshole, Mac, washing away the stupid maple leaf I told you _not_ to draw on my garage floor? Not really the top of the list.”

“Well, I’m still pissed about it,” Mac says, “Hence why, y’know, this.” He gestured to the drawing with the chalk, inadvertently making an extra little scuff on the concrete. “Shit.”

Dennis snorts. “Yeah, hence that shit. Look, if you’re so pissed about it, why don’t you say that to my dad’s face?” Dennis squints at the driveway. “Well, maybe don’t just walk up to him and scream _that,_ y’know, not that _exactly,_ cuz he’ll just think you’re a fuckin’ spaz, but tell him off for washing away your stupid leaf if you’re so pissy about it. He’s like, what, four feet tall? Don’t be a pussy.”

Mac snorts. “You trying to get me fuckin’ killed? I know your dad carries that little gun around with him everywhere.” Dennis chuckles darkly. “You’re a real live psychopath, you know that, Dennis?” Mac drops the chalk. “There! Done! That’ll show him!”

“At 8am, when he backs his car out over it?” Dennis points out. “Yeah. I’m sure it’ll slice him just,” Dennis makes a slicing motion, _“Fwp!_ Right to the bone.” Dennis leafs through his torn-out pictures, crumpling and throwing out a few that he decides aren’t up to his standards after all.

Mac frowns, glances around the garage, back over at the spot of bare concrete that his pot leaf once proudly tarnished, “Maybe I should’ve written it over there.” Mac dusts his hands off on his jeans. “Fuck it, I’m gonna. What’s the worst that could happen? He sees it twice?”

The remaining clippings brush against Dennis’s bare knee with an audible flutter as Dennis gestures violently at Mac and makes a really weird noise, sounding like he’s screaming with his mouth closed. “ _No!_ No more drawing in my garage!”

“But I…”

“Ah ha-ha!” Dennis half-screams, half-laughs. “Instead of telling my dad off in chalk drawings or drawing more maple leaves, why don’t you just go roll us a fucking joint?”

Mac shrinks a little. “A joint?”

“Yes, Mac,” Dennis says irritably, “a joint. You forget how to roll one, or...?”

Charlie can see the flush on Mac’s neck even in the dim light of the garage. “I...yeah, no, I…I remember how to roll one, you asshole, you don’t just...”

 _“You_ might,” Dennis clips. Mac deflates. “But okay, so, you do remember?” A nod. “Great. Go roll.”

Mac lets out this soft noise that reminds Charlie of the carbonation hissing when you open a soda bottle combined with a balloon leaking air and cries, “Wh-why do you...why do we…”

Narrowing his eyes, Dennis coldly asks, “You’re not gonna share your stash anymore?”

“No! No! It’s not like that!” Mac protests. “I’d never do that to you! I just…it’ll take up all my weed, man, and it’s not even gonna be…like!” Mac gestures over to Charlie, who raises his eyebrows, startled at the sudden attention. “Like, you know Charlie’s tolerance is through the roof, man, it takes so much to get him high, and you’re so fuckin... _poised_ , or whatever, you don’t even act like anything’s happening until like, a few joints in, so it’s not even gonna be any fun, and it’s like.. _._ _all_ my weed, man, I’m….”

“Nnnh!” Dennis interrupts, waving his hands and signaling for Mac to stop like an orchestra conductor. “Mac!  _What?_ What are you talking about? What do you mean?”

Mac pauses. “Mm?”

“What do you mean it’ll be ‘all your weed’?” Dennis says, voice even but his tone sounding strained, like a rubber band near breaking point. “You’re a dealer. I...one joint? That shouldn’t be all your weed. That shouldn’t even make a dent in your weed. What’s going on here, Mac?”

Charlie’s fully listening now, stomach going a little queasy at the implication he’s starting to pick up on. “Are you saying we’re having a weed crisis, man? Is that what you’re saying to me?”

Mac presses the heels of both of his hands to his eyes and grunts in frustration. “Nnngh! I knew you guys would be like this!” He flings his hands away from his face, slapping them against his thighs. “I...I screwed up a little bit, okay?”

“What do you mean?” Dennis asks. Charlie echoes him, “What do you _mean_ , Mac?”, but a little bit more softly, a little bit more desperate, a soft whine seeping in.

Mac collapses against the toolbench, burying his face into his arms between a belt sander and a circular saw. He moans miserably into his folded arms for a second. Dennis and Charlie exchange a silent, worried glance.

Eventually Mac brings his head up, red-faced, hairline mussed. “I guess it got out, or _whatever_ , that I might’ve kinda had a _bit_ of a hand in getting Black Guy Josh’s plants confiscated, or, like. _Whatever!”_

Charlie shrieks in shock at the exact same time that Dennis yelps, “Well any idiot could’ve figured _that_ out!”

Mac leans heavily against the toolbench, resting the back pockets of his jeans against the splintery wood. “Anyway, you know I made most of my money buying from the poor black kids and selling to the rich white kids, because they’re all racist as shit and think they’re more likely to get caught buying off a kid with an afro?”

“Of course we know that,” Dennis says. “We’ve been here, watching you do that, this whole time.”

“Right,” Mac waves him off. “I don’t even know why I said that. But yeah, anyway, I got Black Guy Josh busted --- or had like, a _real_ tiny hand in that happening --- and now not a single one of those ghetto bastards will sell to me!”

“So?” Dennis says. “Buy from someone else!”

Charlie sighs darkly. “He can’t.”

Dennis’s head snaps around to look at him. “What?”

“He can’t,” Charlie repeats. “He’s burned every _fucking_ bridge at that school. That’s it, man. Game over. We’re cut off. God _fucking_ damn it, Mac!”

“Don’t yell at me!” Mac shouts. “Do not yell at me, Charlie! I do not handle being yelled at well! I do not handle it well! I _do not_ handle it _well!”_

“You don’t handle anything well!” Charlie screams. “You just handled us into never having weed again! That’s terrible! That’s handling things terrible! Terrible handling!”

“I’m not terrible handling!” Mac bellows. “You’re terrible handling! Terrible handling!”

 _“Guys!_ ” Dennis cuts through to stop them from their next step, which was absolutely about to be yelling “terrible handling” back and forth until the sun explodes. Mac and Charlie both turn to look at him. He raises a hand to each of them. “Calm the fuck down. We’re going to have weed again, Charlie. We’ll just have to stop going through Mac’s contacts, and start going through mine.”

“You have contacts?” Mac says, looking kind of hurt. “Who gave you contacts?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dennis brushes him off. “All that matters is first thing tomorrow I can get us more weed. In the meantime, though.” He raises his eyebrows pointedly at Mac. “You gonna get us that joint, or…?”

Mac furrows his brow. “Are you sure, Den? Cuz I can’t be without weed, I get…”

Dennis shushes him. “Trust me. First thing tomorrow. Primo shit.”

Mac sighs. Charlie knows that sigh - he’s not thrilled, but he’s willing. Dennis knows that sigh, too, and that’s why he’s grinning. “Good,” Dennis says softly. “Good idea, Mac. Good all around.”

“Yeah,” Mac breathes, sounding defeated. “Good.”

“You’ll go roll us a joint?”

“I’ll go roll you a joint.”

A grinning Dennis has to stand to let Mac up the stairs. As soon as the door slams behind him, Dennis chuckles darkly, making his way over to Charlie rather than sitting back down. Charlie’s about to get up, but then he realizes what Dennis is going for: the freezer. He lifts the door that Charlie isn’t sitting on and reaches in, pulling out a Bomb Pop.

“Everything’s so _dramatic_ with that guy,” Dennis laughs, unwrapping the cold treat with his elbows resting on the freezer, putting his chin at the same height as Charlie’s shoulder but not touching it. “Like, come on, man! I’ll get you weed! Calm down!”

“Yeah,” Charlie laughs, then fixes Dennis with a look he’s trying not to make seem too serious. “So, uh, are you actually gonna get him more weed tomorrow, though, or…?”

Dennis fixes Charlie with a look of his own. “Yes, Charlie,” he says steadily. “I can’t believe you’d even ask me that. Of course I’m gonna get him more weed.”

“Right,” Charlie grins. “Right, cuz you wouldn’t…”

“I mean, what else am I gonna smoke?” Dennis chuckles, quirking a brow at Charlie. “Right?”

“Right,” Charlie says, but the heart isn’t there and Dennis catches on.

Frowning, Dennis states, “Yeah, and you can get right off that high horse, Charlie, cuz I know for a fact he smokes you out too.”

Charlie shrugs, acquiescing. “Actually, yeah, alright. Fair enough.” He laughs. “Uh, well, in that case, thanks for getting me that weed tomorrow, man.”

Snorting, Dennis bumps the back of his hand against Charlie’s thigh affectionately. “Pfft, yeah, no problem, bud.”

There’s a moment of silence. Charlie picks at the dirt under his jagged thumbnail while Dennis pushes the first bit of the bomb pop into his mouth, hiding all the red and leaving just white and blue; white caps on blue waves. Sky over arctic, reversed. “Man, sucks we’re so low tonight. He was bein’ kind of an asshole about it, but he wasn’t wrong. It takes like, three joints to get me high. One joint, split three ways? I’ll be lucky to even, like, chill out.”

Dennis nods around the oblong shape in his mouth, pulling it out with a soft pop so he can speak. “I thought about that, Charlie, cuz I’m the same way, and I think!” He pauses to eye Charlie with a sideways grin. “I have a plan.”

“Oh, rad,” Charlie smiles. “What is it?”

There’s a long pause where Dennis wordlessly sucks on the popsicle, but maintains eye contact with Charlie in order to assure Charlie the conversation isn’t over. At least, that’s what Charlie thinks Dennis is doing. Sometimes Dennis will do some weird shit like that, and Charlie isn’t entirely sure why he’s doing it, or why it makes him kinda feel the way he kinda does. But eventually Dennis takes the whittled-down Bomb Pop out to offer through red-stained lips, “So here me out here: Shotgunning.”

“Oh,” Charlie says, nodding. Then it sets in. He furrows his brow. “Wait a minute, isn’t shotgunning…?”

Dennis nods. “Yeah, man, I know, but when you’re trying to conserve weed there’s really no method that compares.”

Half-sighing and half-laughing, Charlie mutters, “Mac’s not gonna like that.”

Licking sticky red juice off his smirking lips, Dennis bitterly states, “Mac’s gonna have to fuckin’ deal. Mac's the reason we have to do this in the first place.”

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Charlie glances at the four-letter word Mac scrawled in green into Dennis’s driveway.  
  
_Fuck,_ Charlie thinks.

 _Fuck,_ for sure.


	2. Part 2

Mac returns with the sloppiest joint Charlie’s ever seen clutched between his fingers. Unground buds of weed wrapped in printer paper, stems stabbing through, no filter, a little bud eking out each side. 

“Dude,” Dennis admonishes when he sees it but Charlie’s jonesing so bad, that shitty little joint looks like heaven. His mouth is almost watering the second he sees it. He can taste the charred bud on his tongue already.    


“I couldn’t find your grinder,” Mac protests, “and you’re out of papers.”

Dennis waves him off. “It’s fine, Mac. I told you to roll a joint, and you did, so that’s...fine.”

Dennis stands and Mac and Charlie both follow. He leads them to the former resting place of Mac’s green chalk leaf of indeterminate species, directing Mac and Charlie in turn so by the time they’re settled in they’re sitting in a shitty triangle, legs crossed “Indian style” so Charlie’s denim-clad knees are awfully close to Dennis and Mac’s bare ones. 

There’s an attempt to stuff some of the eking bud back into the joint with the narrowest part of his pinky nail, but eventually Dennis just rolls his eyes and lights the thing. The sun’s mostly gone down now, and no one’s bothered to switch on the garage light, leaving the concrete room in a sort of indigo dim. It makes the sparks and eventual flame of the Bic seem all the brighter, makes the glow at the tip of the joint not quite the  _ only _ thing Charlie can see, but the it’s so bright and draws his eye so strongly that it’s the only thing his eyes seem to think is worth seeing.

Illuminated by the light of the joint like the storyteller of a scary campfire story, Dennis locks eyes with Charlie, raises his brows. Charlie spares one last look at an oblivious Mac before sighing, rolling his eyes, and leaning in, keeping his hands firmly in his own lap even though it makes him feel slightly off-balance as he leans in to Dennis.

The slight brush of lips is unexpected, unexpected enough that Charlie almost jolts back but thinks better of it at the last second. His open mouth is lightly, but undeniably, pressed against Dennis’s open mouth. He can feel where the dry outer part of Dennis’s lips meets the much wetter inside and the idea of it being wet with Dennis’s spit makes him want to squirm away to a point that’s almost visceral but then right as he’s about to panic there’s warm breath coming into his mouth and that’s weird, too, for sure, but only for a literal millisecond before he tastes, oh god  _ yes, _ that skunky-smoky taste he’d been craving. The high curling in as he sucks the breath into his lungs makes him press a little harder against Dennis’s lips without meaning to, upgrading it to a full-on kiss now for sure, but Dennis doesn’t seem to mind, emptying his lungs into Charlie’s throat before pulling back and leaving Charlie to it.

They both turn to Mac at the same time. Mac’s mouth is open wider than Dennis’s and Charlie’s had been, so wide it’s almost scary in the dark.

“Gay,” is the only word that seems able to come from his mouth. “Gay. Gay gay. Gay.”

“Calm down, Mac,” Dennis soothes. “It saves on weed, buddy.” 

“I-I-I-I-I don’t wanna...gay,” Mac stammers, “I don’t wanna…”

But Dennis doesn’t seem worried, instead snapping at Charlie, “Dude, breathe out and take the next puff already. Now is not the time for holding in your hits, you are  _ literally _ burning product as we speak.”

Bluish-grey secondhand breath floats away towards the ceiling and then Charlie’s got the joint in his hand, fumbled into his waiting fingers by a half-blind-from-the-dark Dennis, narrowly missing pressing the cherry right into his palm. He pulls it in fast, not wanting to annoy Dennis further, but oh, oh, ouch, ouch,  _ ouch, _ that  _ hurts!  _ His throat constricts and convulves around the too-hot, too-harsh hit of stems wrapped in computer paper. He swallows a portion of the smoke into his stomach, winces and grabs at Mac’s wrist, leaning in.

“I don’t…” Mac leans away.

“Mac, be nice,” Dennis admonishes, but he sounds faintly amused. “He’s choking!”

Mac’s dark gaze shoots in all conflicted directions before landing on Charlie’s flushed, desperate face and watering eyes. He finally leans in, surprising everyone in the room - including probably Mac himself. 

If Charlie had to guess, he’d say Mac probably intended to leave a bit of space between the two of them and misjudged the distance in the dark, because as soon as they meet Mac gasps against Charlie’s lips before Charlie’s even breathing out yet, gasps in a way that Charlie’s almost certain has nothing to do with shotgunning and everything to do with shock. Remembering how much better Charlie had felt after Dennis had given him the smoke, he does the same for Mac, pursing his lips against Mac’s fuller, softer ones and slowly but deliberately streaming smoke into Mac’s waiting lungs. 

Charlie’s relief is absolutely palpable when Mac does the same thing Charlie found himself doing, pressing in harder to seek more of the smoke out. Charlie can’t exactly find himself complaining, and attributes it to the weed that he’s picturing having his mouth against twin rose petals, because kissing Mac’s soft, pillowy mouth - _shotgunning_ it, he mentally corrects - is nothing like having his lips against something so thin and flimsy. 

Smoke trails between the two of them as Mac leans back. Even through the purplish tint of late evening Charlie can see that Mac’s face is absolutely flaming, the tips of his ears reminding Charlie of those jars of sweet cherries at ice cream shops. 

“Give Mac the joint, Charlie,” Dennis says, voice soft like he’s afraid speaking might break whatever spell is happening here. Charlie gets it in Mac’s hand without trying especially hard, their actions already synced somehow. 

The darkness mostly camouflages how much Mac’s hand is trembling as he pulls in a hit. He takes too greedy of one, clearly; the joint burns down a little more than it should from one puff, and Dennis clicks his tongue irritably. Charlie’s not sure why _ he’s  _ mad; he’ll be getting most of that smoke for himself in just a second anyway. If anyone should be annoyed, it should be Charlie - he’s the only one none of that extra large puff is benefitting. Trembling even more now, Mac leans in to give the hit to Dennis. His hand falls on Dennis’s knee, and Charlie sees the corners of Dennis’s mouth twitch up.

Charlie’s pretty sure it’s that little smile that breaks him.

“No!” Mac cries suddenly, stumbling to his feet. A massive plume of smoke tumbles from his lips. “No, no, I can’t, I can’t do this! This is way too gay not to be a sin!”

Dennis is giving Mac a disapproving glare, which would probably be a lot more effective if he wasn’t also trying to suck in all the smoke that Mac let out, his lips pursed and cheeks drawn in, head darting around wildly to try and collect it all before it dissipates. The two expressions don’t create an especially flattering result when mixed.

“No,” Mac says, already halfway up the steps. “The, uh, the joint is yours, I just…” Opening the door to the house fills the garage with light, blinding Dennis and Charlie. He glances back at them one more time. “Gay.” He closes the door.

“What a fucking prick,” Dennis snorts. He glances over at Charlie. “You gonna pussy out on me too?”

“No,” Charlie says adamantly. “I need that joint.”

Dennis purses his lips, nodding his approval. “Good,” he says. “That’s what I like about you. You’re up for anything.” He turns so he and Charlie are facing each other fully now, and takes a long, slow, deliberate drag, even longer than Mac’s ridiculously oversized hit moments ago. He raises his eyebrows as if to say “Ready?” and Charlie nods his head to say yes.

Resting both of his hands on Charlie’s thighs, Dennis leans in and kisses him. There’s no other word for it - there’s no lean and accidental brush, no light and soft press. Dennis leans in and presses his mouth right to Charlie’s, then moves slightly, brushing their lips together and connecting more fully. Charlie represses a shiver, and not in a bad way. He takes in what Dennis gives him as soon as he feels the warmth of it, and finds himself strangely mourning him when Dennis pulls back. 

Smoke escaping as he speaks, Charlie says, “Dennis, you kinda just…”

Dennis just shushes him. “Talking wastes weed,” he says wisely, and gives Charlie the joint. “Smoke instead.” 

So that’s what he does. This time he’s a little bolder, scooting in closer than necessary, bumping knees. He keeps his eyes locked on Dennis’s the whole time he’s smoking; Dennis’s tongue darts out across his own lips, hungrily. Charlie rests a hand on Dennis’s jawline as he leans in, smashing their mouths together with the sort of urgency he thinks Dennis will appreciate. 

Not one to be outdone, Dennis breathes the smoke into the space between them as soon as they’ve parted and immediately fumbles for the joint. They’re getting better at passing it, fewer near-misses as far as burning each other goes. Dennis takes a page from Charlie’s book, eyes steady on Charlie’s as he takes a long, easy drag. Charlie’s stomach twists, not unpleasantly. 

Dennis rests his hands on Charlie’s shoulders and uses them to steady himself as he leans forward. Charlie goes to scoot a little closer, having to relent as their knees get in his way. Dennis slides his tongue over the swell of Charlie’s lower lip, so fast Charlie’s not sure it’s happening until it’s over, the spark from it making Charlie’s toes curl in his Keds. 

At this point, the joint isn’t long for this world. Charlie sucks in as much as he can, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. Annoyed by their knees knocking, Charlie slides his knees apart to go on either side of Dennis’s. It straightens Charlie out a little, giving him a slight height advantage over Dennis that he’s not used to. He takes advantage of it, sliding in close, at first getting his hand around the back of Dennis’s neck but then sliding it up, against the grain of the soft short hair at the back of Dennis’s head. His other hand finds it way to Dennis’s thigh, index finger slipping slightly beneath the hem of Dennis’s shorts. Charlie feels goosebumps there.

Dennis’s hand comes to the small of Charlie’s back, pressing the baggy fabric of the hand-me-down t-shirt from Mac that Charlie’s currently wearing right against his skin for once. Charlie’s teeth nick a little at Dennis’s lower lip when he pulls away, and the shirt goes extra taut against Charlie’s stomach as Dennis grips the fabric he’s holding a little tighter.  

The joint’s spent, Charlie’s half in Dennis’s lap and they’ve stayed connected at the mouths a good ten seconds after Charlie finished breathing the last of the final hit into him. Dennis breaks away long enough to exhale, then leans back in, no smoke to justify anything anymore.

The one thing they’d avoided was getting their tongues too involved, save for that one swipe, but almost instantly there’s a slick, wet something pressing at Charlie’s lips and when Dennis’s tongue finds his own it’s like a lightning bolt shooting into him. He’s not super great at the whole “making out” thing yet, not entirely sure what to do, but Dennis’s mouth is moving so deftly against his Charlie kind of forgets what they’re doing at all, giving himself over to the feeling of it rather than thinking it through and worrying that he might be doing it wrong.

They break apart and instantly dissolve into stoned giggles, sprawling out on Dennis’s garage floor. Eventually their laughter dies away and they’re just lying there, comfortably stoned, feeling the summer breeze filtering in through the open garage door. Cicadas start to sing, crickets chirp. The universal song of summer. 

“Charlie, look! Fireflies,” Dennis says suddenly, pointing. It’s the first thing either of them have said in ages. Charlie half-sits, peering out the garage, and Dennis is right. The sun’s fully gone down now. The street is lined with the shadows of houses and trees and people, and overshadowing all of them are these little pinpricks of light, fading in and out, dozens of them scattered, the outlines of the garage door like a picture frame over a perfect summer scene. The fireflies aren’t quite the  _ only _ thing Charlie can see, but they’re so bright and beautiful, drawing his eye so strongly that they’re the only thing his eyes seem to think is worth seeing.

Well, that’s not quite right. Charlie glances over at Dennis, who is watching him with a serene, stoned smile on his face. The air smells of nighttime now, of crisp air and oncoming morning dew. An owl hoots in the distance. Dennis’s attention is drawn away as a couple fireflies make their way into the garage. His joy at seeing them is absolutely childlike, and he’s too high to hide it.   
  
_ I’m going to remember this,  _ Charlie thinks again, and thinks it so strongly that the combined efforts of chemical abuse, numerous concussions, nightly binge drinking, and decades of time barely even fade the memory. 

**Author's Note:**

> please please P L E A S E leave a comment if you read this
> 
> (find me on tumblr: psychedelic-iridescent.tumblr.com)


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